Skin Crawls With Sex, At Fire, Or On Tepid Wounds -But Always Until Death

Slither like new
Thought, and curled like
Old mists;

Diligent addiction
to
feeling;

Yes,
it’s
a

Perilous attraction to live,
And a
Copious occupation to
Die -or to

Bury those
who have
Or

To care for those who are
Dying, or to
Marry or birth

Those who
someday
Will Die,

Old,
Barren,
Bereaved-

-Like fat
lizzards, or

Blind coregated
slaughter house
Brains

Atop mad-doll make-up,
Or misfortunes antique
Regalia,

But always it crawls for
Visitors or visions of
The opposite SEX,

Or fear for the
Opposite
Life-

-We all sleep
Most days away
Waking;

And drive most nights
To drink,
Moaning-

-In all
Antimatter
Missions

They teach the
Gospel
Light;

We only see shadows,
And chase the waning drops
Of Five Senses -like lusting dew.

We will hear the
Chorus
Someday,

We will see
The shining
Stilled.

Until dear death, we -crawling
as the
Serpent,

As
the
vorpal shimmers

On
a
Final-

-Fear
Flaming
Sword,

We lust
ourselves
Awake.

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About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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3 Responses to Skin Crawls With Sex, At Fire, Or On Tepid Wounds -But Always Until Death

  1. Evelyn says:

    “Diligent addiction
    to
    feeling”
    yes, yes.

    “They teach the
    Gospel
    Light”
    the gospel itself has been watered down?

    “We lust
    ourselves
    Awake”
    perhaps the truest line ever written.

  2. very intense imagery, well done….

    missed your presence,

    Good Evening:

    How divine when you come to poetry potluck,

    Week 43 is free verse week, submit 1 to 3 random poems, enjoy the fun!

    Hope to see you tonight.

    xoxox

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